


It Ain't Nothing

by coffeeandcas



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Childhood Sexual Abuse, POV Daryl Dixon, Past Rape/Non-con, Sharing a Bed, Virgin Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: But then, one day, Paul Rovia crashed into his life and something changed. It changed that day in the field when he gave Daryl a run for his money and saved his life, and it changed in the car when Paul’s head kept meeting Daryl’s shoulder. He knew, even then, that this man was different. That meeting him was significant. That it wasn't nothing then. And that it ain't nothing now.





	It Ain't Nothing

They've been sharing a bed for almost a month now and, objectively, Daryl thinks there could be worse people to sleep next to. He has very limited experience of other people’s sleep habits but Paul doesn't snore, kick, steal the covers or do anything else that other people always complain about. He's pretty perfect to sleep next to, all things considered.

It had started out awkwardly, of course. Paul had been staying in one of the bedrooms in the house Daryl has chosen to call his own on the nights when it got too late to return to Hill Top. He was down the hall, a safe distance away - or so Daryl had assumed. But twice he had woken from a vivid nightmare to find the other man kneeling by the bed, attempting to soothe and coax him back to consciousness. The first time he had lashed out at Paul, who clearly wasn't expecting it at all, and knocked him on his ass. He had seemed pretty understanding all things considered, and had left the room clutching his jaw once Daryl’s breathing has returned to normal and he had managed to stutter out an apology. The next time it happened, Paul was ready. He dodged Daryl’s wild, unseeing punch and instead took his shoulder, the touch somehow doing wonders to calm the other man and draw him back to consciousness. Then Paul started sleeping in his room; he would wake to the lean, long-haired hippie contorted in the chair by the window, sound asleep, and feel guilty although he had no reason to. He never asked Paul to stay. Paul just did it. And, somehow, the nightmares slowly retreated until Daryl was getting a full five or six hours, more than he can ever remember having.

Eventually he woke one night to find Paul shifting restlessly, clearly uncomfortable but refusing to admit to it, and he had rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb at the unoccupied side of the bed nearest the door.

“Get in. No sense in you sleepin’ all tangled up when there's plenty ‘o room right here.”

“I'm fine.” Paul shifted and his shoulder made a weird cracking noise, loud as gunfire in the silent room. “Just… a little stiff. Go back to sleep.”

“Stubborn ass,” Daryl griped, turning his back on the other man and closing his eyes again. But less than a minute later, soft footsteps could be heard crossing the bedroom, then the bed dipped, and when he cracked an eye open he found himself staring at the back of Paul’s head, his hair scrunched up in some knot and the back of his linen shirt creased and crumpled. Daryl got seven hours sleep that night.

They've started kissing, too. It ain't nothing, either. It's good, it comes easy, and Daryl quietly enjoys it. He doesn't remember much of their first kiss, thanks to good old Jack Daniels himself, but he does remember backing the other man against a wall and crashing his mouth against Paul’s, then pulling back and gripping the front of his shirt to yell at him.

“This what you wanted, huh? You been givin’ me the eye for weeks, don't try’n deny it. This it? This what you've been after?”

Angered by Paul’s lack of response - the other man has just gazed up into Daryl’s eyes with an unreadable expression - he had surged forward and kissed him again, and this time his brain registered that the feeling of Paul’s mouth beneath his wasn't horrible. It was… kinda nice. Kinda simple, like they'd been doing it forever. And when Paul made a small sound of enjoyment against his lips and reaches up to grip his leather vest, Daryl was lost. His hands dropped to Paul’s hips and then they were really kissing, all heat and passion and it felt so _freeing_. Paul kissed well, like he really meant it, and they had stayed locked in each other's arms for a long time until Daryl pulled away and, a bit freaked out, shoved Paul to the side and all but ran from the house.

They had kissed again the next night; Daryl had dragged Paul down the side of one of the houses while Rick was spoutin’ off about a raid or something, and their mouths had been on each other before either of them fully registered what was happening. It was hot and needy, and it only lasted a minute before Daryl pulled away, freaked out once again.

The next kiss was nothing like the first two. Paul had been changing for bed and had gently taken Daryl’s arm as he attempted to walk past him to the bathroom, and the press of his lips had been chaste and gentle. Daryl had liked that one the best. They had slept closer together that night, their fingers just touching. Well, Paul had slept soundly, and Daryl had watched him, trying to sort through his feelings and emotions. Paul was nothing like anyone he had known before, and he was drawing Daryl to him like a magnet. And, somehow, Daryl was content to let himself be drawn. Paul made it all seem so easy and natural, and he found he didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought of them. He's sure nobody knows anyway, not yet, but he wouldn't care if they did. He would take on anyone who threw so much as a side-eye at either of them, and he's sure nobody would dare anyway.

He's lying in bed now, facing Paul, who has his back to him and is fast asleep. The gentle rise and fall of his shoulders signifies that he's relaxed and at peace, and it's a familiar sight. Daryl likes to watch him sleep, he finds it almost as restful as getting shut-eye himself. They've been doing this other thing too, the last few days, something Daryl doesn't know what to call. It ain't _cuddling_ because he doesn't do that. And it certainly ain't _snuggling_ because… yeah, no. He doesn't do that either. But whatever it is they've been doing, it ain't nothing. It's gentle touches and warm smiles, eye contact and rhymes stroking circles on rough skin. It's Paul kissing his cheek and nuzzling his neck, and it's Daryl finally nudging him away so they can get some sleep. Tonight, Daryl wants a little more than what they've been doing. He wants to touch Paul, and he wants to press close to the other man and hold him, like a lover would.

Not that Daryl has any experience with lovers. He only knows what other people have told him, or what he's seen on the TV before the world went to shit. His one and only sexual experience had been… he feels chilled recalling it. He had been eighteen and clueless, and Merle had been high. His brother had come in and climbed into Daryl’s bed after a night on a bender, and had started to touch himself while making lewd, loud noises to leave to doubt as to what he was doing. Daryl had squeezed his eyes shut in horror, clapped his hands over his ears and turned away, lying as still as he possibly could in the hope that Merle would forget he was there. No such luck. Merle had gripped his hand and pulled it towards him, down between his legs, and Daryl had felt his older brother’s orgasm, hot and wet, and Merle had laughed and laughed and laughed. Distressed, Daryl had bolted and locked himself in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands until his skin was red and raw, and had spent the rest of the night leaning against the door, shaking. The next morning Merle had remembered none of it, and it had never happened again.

He had never touched anyone since. Hadn't wanted to. The memory of how guilty and dirty he had felt had stuck with him and made him pull back from anyone who even attempted to come close. Women had never interested him; most of them were too soft and too sweet and he knows he would never be able to do right by one, especially now. Some were tough enough, like Carol, but she was his best friend and like a mother to him, so it never crossed his mind. But other men… He just couldn't. Couldn't bear the guilt and the regret and the shame. But then, one day, Paul Rovia crashed into his life and something changed. It changed that day in the field when he gave Daryl a run for his money and saved his life, and it changed in the car when Paul’s head kept meeting Daryl’s shoulder. He knew, even then, that this man was different. That meeting him was significant. That it wasn't nothing then. And that it ain't nothing now.

Daryl touches gently, skittishly, afraid he will be pushed away. He moves up close behind Paul and touches the back of his neck, feather-light. Paul’s hair is scrunched up in a knot, exposing the pale skin of his neck, and Daryl strokes it curiously. Then his hand trails to Paul’s shoulder, then down his arm to where it rests gently across his chest. Paul sighs in his sleep and, encouraged, Daryl moves a little closer and pulls the other man in to his body.

“You awake?” He murmurs, just loud enough to be heard. Paul nods drowsily against him, turns his head just so Daryl can see the smile gracing his lips.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Daryl decides to try that thing Paul does when he presses close to his neck and drops little kisses there, and finds he really enjoys doing it. Paul sighs and tilts his head, exposing his throat, and his skin feels like warm silk beneath Daryl’s lips. His hand strays again, caressing Paul’s chest and forearm, before tentatively dipping under the sheet so he can press his palm flat against tight abs, hidden from him only by a thin layer of fabric. Paul shifts back, pressing more firmly against Daryl’s chest, and their legs end up entwined somehow. Encouraged, Daryl pulls him even closer and nuzzles his neck again.

“This is a nice way to wake up…” Paul’s voice is low and rough with sleep. “Your hand feels good…” Daryl’s fingers are ghosting over the waistband of his sleep pants now, and there isn't much doubt about where he wants to go next.

Gathering courage he didn't know he had, he buries his face in Paul’s hair and inhales the sweet, clean scent of him. He must have showered at some point before coming to bed. “I wanna…” _Wanna touch you. Wanna know what you feel like in my hand. Wanna know how similar you are to me, and how different. Wanna know what you feel like when you…_ “You gonna let me?”

“You know I am…” Paul sighs and turns a little in Daryl’s arms so their mouths are inches apart. A finger under his chin draws him in and Paul is kissing him, gentle and slow but deep, really deep, an invitation for more. “Touch me however you want. I'm yours tonight.”

And damn, if that didn't send a spark down his spine, one that settled between his legs and set up camp, leaving a burning desire in its wake. He's unused to feeling such desire while in such close proximity to someone but it's _Paul,_ and Paul is… he wants to say _gorgeous_ but a guy doesn't say that about another guy. Does he? He's never heard it said, and all he knows is that Merle would beat the hell out of any guy who even considered saying it. But Merle isn't here right now and Paul is, and he wants to touch him so badly that his hand trembles with the desire. But he can't make the move. Something has him frozen, some latent, buried-deep fear, but before he can think on it too much Paul takes the control. He seems to sense Daryl’s hesitation, and brings his own hand down to stroke the back of his fingers, then he reaches lower and pushes down the waistband of his sleep pants. Daryl’s breath hitches at the movement and his hand shift of its own accord to follow Paul’s.

Then he's touching the other man, intimately, between his legs, and Paul lets out a breathy moan and lets his head fall back to rest on Daryl’s shoulder. He snakes his other arm under Paul, wraps it around his shoulders to pull him close, and surely this is what lovers do? How lovers touch? Even if it isn't, he doesn't care because this is the closest he's been to another person in his entire life, and the fact that it's Paul just means one thing really: this is perfect. This is everything he's ever thought it would be like. And the sweet, breathy little sounds leaving the other man’s lips seem to be a sign that Daryl is doing something very right, although he doesn't have the first clue where to start when it comes to bringing pleasure to another.

So he just touches. Explores. He knows he wants Paul to feel good, doesn't want to be bad at this, so he listens intently to the sounds leaving the other man’s mouth and the way his muscles tense and contract, and when it sounds like Paul particularly enjoys a certain touch, he repeats it. The pleasant ache between his own thighs has turned needy and intense, but he ignore it. This isn't about him. It's about Paul.

Paul is hard and soft beneath his hand all at the same time. His cock is thick and solid, damp at the tip, and it pulses gently against Daryl’s palm. The skin of his thighs is soft and supple, and the back of his hand gently brushes Paul’s balls and he still, curious. He cups the other man’s balls in his hand, strokes the sac covered in a light layer of hair, and enjoys the pleased reaction he gets in response, so he continues to massage them gently. He uses his thumb to rub slow stripes up and down the hard shaft, and Paul whines a little, spreading his legs as much as he can; he's still lying mostly on his side, leaning against the strength of Daryl’s body, giving himself over to him so completely. He dips a little lower, curious. He brushes the tender skin behind Paul’s balls with a thumb and draws a beautiful gasp in return. A hand comes up to the back of his neck, holding him close.

“You can if you want…”

His brow furrows. Can what?

“Inside me…”

Oh. No. He can't do that, doesn't want to. But if Paul wants him to then should he? His hand has stilled and his body has tensed without him knowing, and a moment later a warm hand dips down and covers his between the hot, sweat-slick thighs of the man pressed against him.

“Let's keep doing this. You feel incredible. Your hand… it feels so good…”

So Daryl continues, stroking and caressing Paul as the gasps and moans grow louder and gain intensity. Pleasure tingles up and down his own spine and his own cock, hard and damp and desperate for attention, throbs eagerly but Daryl ignores it, in spite of Paul arching his hips and pressing his ass up against Daryl’s groin.

“Do you want me to?” A hand reaches back, caresses his hip through his boxers. “I'd like to…”

Daryl shakes his head against the dip of Paul’s collarbone. He isn't ready to be touched. Instead, he curls his hand experimentally around the shaft in his hand and strokes with the same speed and pressure he knows he likes, at least to begin with, and the reaction is incredible. Paul gasps and cants his hips forward into Daryl’s palm; Daryl pulls him impossibly closer and starts to pump him with slow deliberation until the other man is gasping, shaking, and starting to tense against him.

“I'm… I'm so close… Daryl, I'm…”

“Yeah?” He murmurs against Paul’s skin, licking at the sweat pooling there and biting down gently, receiving a keening cry in return. “Feel good?”

“ _Fuck_ … oh, oh _fuck…”_ Paul goes rigid, the hand on Daryl’s hip digging in and his other hand tightening around the arm holding him close, and then he's coming, hot and wet and beautiful, spilling over Daryl’s hand. “Yes… _yes_ … god, yes…” He keeps arching, thrusting his hips as Daryl works him through it, watching the younger man’s face as he writhes in the throes of climax. “ _Daryl!”_

Something in Daryl’s chest tightens as he hears his name spill from Paul’s lips, and he can't help but press hot kisses to any exposed inch of skin he can find. It's difficult: the younger man is still basically fully clothed, with only his sleep pants pushed down just far enough for Daryl’s hand, so he settles for his throats and his jaw, and finally his mouth as Paul turns in his arms with a low moan, panting, trying to catch his breath as his orgasm finally ebbs away. Then it's just them, pressed tight against each other, and their gazes are locked so firmly that Daryl doesn't think he’ll ever be able to look away. Doesn't really want to, either. Paul is gorgeous like this, there's no doubt about it. Anyone should think so. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glow… and _Daryl_ did this to him. Made him feel good. Made him come. They kiss slowly for a while, deep and slow, as Paul’s heart rate finally slows and his breathing comes back under control.

“That was amazing.” Paul kisses him again, his beard rough against Daryl’s skin. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Just wanted to.”

He shifts, about to move his hand away from Paul’s body, aware that he's basically just cupping his balls and softening cock now, but a warm hand comes down to cover his own.

“Don't.” Paul sounds blissed-out and drowsy, and he's smiling with half-lidded eyes. “Feels good. Just… stay like this, another five minutes. I love how you touch me.”

“Yeah?” Daryl kisses him on the cheek then settles down behind him, comfortable, holding him close. Is this snuggling? Probably. But if it is, then it's more than OK. Paul sighs in his arms and Daryl can't help but caress him between his thighs, enjoying how he feels, slick and warm beneath his palm. He knows they should clean up, and they will, but Paul was right. This does feel good. Just five more minutes.

This thing, this thing between them? It ain't friendship, it's more than that. It ain't love, not yet, no way. But whatever it is, it's definitely something worth holding on to.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://coffeeandcas.tumblr.com/)


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